


Another Idiot (Sherlock X Reader)

by S0N9_M1N0 (shawtymiamor)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-05 08:40:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18825124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawtymiamor/pseuds/S0N9_M1N0
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has never, ever liked any of the police force- except for Lestrade, maybe. He tolerates Lestrade.On the other hand, Detective Inspector (L/N), newest addition to Scotland Yard, hates freelancers- she has a right to of course, she's much better than any of them.Until the two meet, and maybe- just maybe, they find a way to break their stereotypes.





	1. Chapter 1

"Detective Inspector (L/N)," Sergeant Donovan says, holding out her hand. "I'm Sergeant Sally Donovan."

"Yes." You wave her flimsy hand away. "I'm not in the mood for formalities, hello."

"You're the new Detective Inspector?" She asks, her hand now down by her side, and you chuckle, nodding, easily holding the box with one hand. "I was to show you around."

You shake your head. "No worries, Sergeant. I can find my own way."

The woman, whom you can see is having an affair with one of the staff members from what you had been watching from five minutes ago, most likely the guy named "Anderson", gives you a tight-lipped smile and nod of the head. You pay no mind to her as she leaves- one hand still balancing the box of items, you gaze around with your piercing blue eyes: very nice. Very nice indeed.

Switching the box to your other arm, you walk between the desks and finally spot the empty one, besides which a grey-haired man is waiting: whom you deduce as DI Lestrade.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." You drop your box on your desk and smile at him. Of course, you've known him for longer than the others- in fact he was the one to suggest the job to you.

"(Y/N)." He grins and hugs you: he's more like a father figure than anything else. "How are you doing?"

"It's been five minutes into this job, Greg." You say, cracking a smile as you remove your light brown coat.

He nods. "Exactly. It's hard to adjust."

You begin unloading things from your box. "Well it's not for me. Can you help me put that pen besides the notebook? No, about an inch to the right. Yes. Thank you."

Greg remarks, "You remind me of someone."

"Who, your wife?" You snort and decide to just pour everything out onto your desk with a loud crash, earning a lot of dirty glances from the others.

He ignores both your snide comment and the crash, waving people away. "Listen, I've got to go, but if you need any help-"

"No help needed." Assuring him, you shoot him a grin before pulling up the sleeves of your white formal blouse. "Unless you have any murders for me to solve."

"Uhm-" Greg clears his throat awkwardly. "No."

You roll your eyes. "Stop being so damn uncomfortable, Greg. Bye."

"Bye." Hands in his pockets, he walks away, and you brush some loose strands of your hair out of your eyes before setting up your desk: everything has to be at exact spots.

And you spend your day like that: cleaning up your own desk, ignoring the looks the others gave you. At one point you even dug out a Mars Bar from your pocket- but of course, chocolate did that.

Glancing at the clock, you settle the last thing in place, your laptop, and set it up. The screen flashes and it makes the signature Apple power-on sound.

You yawn as you type in your password, lazily, ignoring the chatter, the typing and the phone ringing-

Wait, the phone ringing?

Glancing over at the phone settled next to your desk, you give it a suspicious look before picking it up. "Hello?"

The voice is warbled, you're going to have to take it apart to fix the speaker, but nothing can stop your dread as the voice screams, "MURDER!"


	2. Chapter 2

 

"So you're on the first day of your job," Donovan says, "And you've already got one of those big mystery cases."

"Yes." You nod. "That appears to be so."

"Are you _that_ good?"

You laugh curtly. "Ah, so you doubt me."

She stares like you're crazy- and you might as well be too. "Of _course_ I bloody doubt you! You're _new,_ for god's sake!"

"No," You slowly drew out, taking a moment to analyze her from head to toe. "You don't. You just have an unpleasant memory with me, but in this case it's not me and it's instead someone- someone that reminds you of me. Who is it?"

"Bloody hell." She shakes her head. "We've got another freak here."

"No, I just have a generally higher brain capacity than you. Who do I remind you of?"

"The freak." She draws out.

"Not someone from the police department, no." You muse. "A freelancer? I do hate freelancers. They're such nuisances."

The car pulls over. "Thank you for your time, Sergeant Donovan. I'm not a freak, I'm just nice to those who deserve it."

"Are you implying that I don't deserve your kindness?"

"Of course." You give her a mocking bow and snicker as you walk away, hands in your pockets and your hair blowing slightly in the wind. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Donovan storm off, probably to talk about it to Anderson. Greg had asked you to meet him, but where-

Ah.

You see him far off in the distance, a grim look on his face as he stands outside of the house. Another man is with him, tall, dark and handsome with a Belstaff New Milford coat. A scarf is wrapped around his neck and his hands are stuffed into his pockets. You scan him a little before you leisurely walk over, thoughts processing in your head.

English, probably lives alone. His late thirties, a frequent chemist.

Interesting.

"Hullo." You greet them, offering both of them a slight smile. "Hi, Greg."

"Hello." He replies. "(Y/N)- I think you'll quite like him- this is Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm DI (Y/N)." You incline your head, and to relief he doesn't hold out his hand either. Good.

He looks down at you and you gaze up at his eyes, right back. "Sherlock Holmes."

You stare at him for a while and realize you've never seen him before in the department, someone who frequents crime scenes, knows Lestrade quite well-

"You must be the freelancer." You note with a disgusted sniff. "Another idiot. Ugh."

"You must be the new Detective Inspector, then," He replies, and you realize how baritone his voice is, deep and rich. "Another idiot of the police department."

"Darling, of course I'm an idiot. Anyone who chooses to talk to you is one."

He blinks and Lestrade shakes his head. "He- She- you- they- do that. They do that."

"I can see that." The two of you replies at the same time and you give him a cold stare down.

"So," Greg awkwardly clears his throat- "Moving onto the crime scene-"

Patting his shoulder gently, you give him a wink and turn on your heel, accompanying Lestrade into the house.

You feel his eyes boring into your back as he follows.


	3. Chapter 3

"Let's play a game." Sherlock says, a grin evident on his face as he walks around. He's intrigued, truly: never has he met anyone able to keep up with his brain capacity.

You frown, tossing your dark locks behind your shoulder as you look at him with an expression- is that sentiment? No, impossible, no one with your level of intelligence could be prone to sentiment. "Four people are lying dead on the floor and you want to play a game?"

He was wrong, then. Sentiment.

"Why not?"

You turn to him, shaking your head. "There are people dead... _Sherlock._ "

"And grieving will do nothing to help, sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side... _(Y/N)._ " He responds, and your eyes rake over him for a moment. He's seen that look before. He wears a similar one when he's analyzing someone.

Then your eyes snag his and they hold gazes for a moment.

Your eyes are a beautiful color, pure bright green. They're full of emotion: how can someone like you be sentimental? How is it possible?

You tear your eyes away from his and brush the strands of wavy hair away from your face- a nervous trait he's watched you do before. "Fine."

"What?"

"What game do you want to play?"

"Oh." He blinks and walk you over to the scene, where the bodies are left exactly where they were- gesturing to them, he says, "Tell me about them."

"A deduction game?" You say, sounding slightly amused. "All right then. Since you insist. Shall I start or would you like to go first?"

"You start." He inclines his head, quite eager to find out the extent of your abilities: so far he had heard about you a lot from Lestrade, and you did not disappoint.

"Unhappy marriage on one side. The woman was unhappy with the man, but the man was rather content with the woman- the only reason she didn't leave was because of her children, whom she loved dearly. She knew that if they had to get a divorce, the man would keep the children. The love of her children can be seen from her desk, she's got photos of them, all along. All their photos everywhere, she probably even has them at work. It could be family love but then there are no pictures whatsoever of her husband, and the only picture that does contain her husband is dangling weakly, the tape is rather weak so she must have taken it on and off, only putting it on for show probably. A ring was found in the bedroom drawer, she took it off due to the unhappy marriage, it could have been care for the ring but she would clean it regularly too and not just toss it in the drawer when a jewelry box is sitting right there."

"That's bloody amazing." A voice says, astonished. "I thought Sherlock was the only one, that bastard."

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. He hates it when he's wrong, and he hates it when there's  _something_ unsolved, like the DI standing in front of him: you.

"Your turn." You step over the puddle of blood and join him, hands clasped behind your back.

"She was having an affair. That one was rather obvious, the untaped picture, the hidden ring, and obviously, the messed duvet: her bathroom, too. Men's cosmetics in a woman's bedroom, her and the man sleep apart but why would men's cosmetics be in her bathroom? Only one lover, I'm guessing, based on the single brand in the bathroom, and that brand has a faint smell but very distinguishable." At that word he gives a sniff. "It's hanging over the bed as well. Look at how the husband was dressed, still in the coat and tie with even a suitcase. Weather forecasts claimed it would be storming last night, and I'm guessing he was about to go on a three-day business trip, based on the clean laundry, but he never got there and instead decided to come back, as his plane didn't take off. He didn't go anywhere else, remember this is a man who loved his children dearly. He would have brought presents. I'm guessing the man caught his wife in the act, and didn't have time to go change or anything before he was murdered."

"One of her lovers." He states.

You shuffle and he realizes that unlike your formal attire- light brown trench coat, white blouse, red tie and black skirt- you're wearing converse highs.

"Yes." You reply, your voice dangerously quiet as you near him. "Of course, Mister Holmes."

"Miss (L/N)." Sherlock muses darkly, and you step closer, face inches away from each other. "Interesting."

"I'm flattered." You whisper, both your voices quiet as he looks down at you and you look up at him.

"Would you like to go solve a case with me? My usual partner is busy. A date, I think."

The tension snaps and you adjust your red tie as you tell him, "I'll ask Lestrade."

"No, go." Lestrade waves the girl away and you give him a look to which he responds, "Sherlock needs legal supervision anyway. You might just as well be up for the job."

"Well then," You say, catching up to him and his loafers clicking alongside your converse highs; "Should we go catch a criminal?"


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh, this case was easy.” Sherlock smirked, as soon as they stepped out onto the street. “And boring. Yawn, yawn. Wasn’t it?”

“Rather easy, yes.” You replied. “Mr. Higgins, her next door neighbor.”

He laughed and shook his head. It was strange yet fascinating, really: how emotionless and murder-loving he was. Almost psychopathic, if not for the tiny sliver of compassion he seemed to have for Lestrade and the fondness in his voice when he talked about his so-called partner.

“It’s always the neighbor.” He grinned. “It’s always the neighbor.”

They crossed the street and stepped into the lawn of a certain Mr. Higgins. You immediately placed yourself so that he wouldn’t be able to see the officers when he peered out.

“Good, good.” He nodded in satisfaction and placed himself next to you, leaving no gaps to see over your shoulder. “Ring the bell.”

And so you did, and so you waited.

Some time after, a clean-shaven man, blond with grey flecks, stepped out and surveyed the two of them with a cheerful expression that seemed too fake. “Why, hello.”

You took one sniff and knew.

“Hello-” The detective behind you started, but you grabbed the man, twisted his arm behind his back, shoved him against the wall, and snapped cuffs on him.

“You’re arrested.” You proclaimed. "For quadruple homicide, having an affair, eating grapes with the peels still on them, and possible loitering."

The two men stared.

“You heard me.” You shrugged and grabbed him, hauling a full grown man behind you as you started towards the police cars.

Mr. Higgins squealed behind you. "Please! I have a... I have a family!"

"Should have thought of that before you killed." You snarled, refusing to look at his pathetic form. You stormed over to Lestrade's car and slammed him onto the hood. These sort of humans disgusted you, which was part of the reason why you took this job in the first place. Those who killed. Those who regretted it  _later_ instead of  _before._

Yeah, you had a strong moral code.

"I didn't mean to," He sobbed, still not letting go. "He came and started yelling, and I panicked, I swear. I just picked up the first thing I saw and threw it at him."

"Shut up!" You snapped, and flipped out your phone. "Greg, I've caught him."

"Who?"

"The murderer. Mr. Higgins, if he can be called that. Get him off me; he's blubbering all over the street."

Soon the police officers took him off you and you sighed, stepping towards fresher air. The anger had worn off, the anger that always happened whenever you saw a criminal, and you felt yourself deflate a little.

"Nicotine patch?"

You turned. "Excuse me?"

"Nicotine patch?" Sherlock Holmes repeated, holding out two patches. "They're better than smoking."

"I don't smoke." You stated. "Quit a long time ago. But I suppose one won't hurt."

Taking one, you rolled up your sleeve and stuck it on your left forearm. He raised an eyebrow at your ruined skin.

"Previous self-harmer. I didn't know that."

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Sherlock." You said softly.

Rolling your sleeve back down and buttoning it, you pulled your coat down and shifting yourself to get more comfortable. "I've got to go."

You spun on your heel and began walking, but a hand stopped you.

"You're a good partner," He said softly. "Listen, erm, do you maybe want to do this another time?"

"Why not?" Smiling, you patted his shoulder. "You're not so bad either, Sherlock."

"The address is 221B Baker Street."

"See you later, Sherlock." You called out. He nodded and you mentally saved the address, just as Sergeant Donovan came to you.

"So then," She said. "You've made friends with the freak."

You scoffed, turning to her. "Friends? No. Colleagues? Maybe. More like acquaintances."

"That's as far as a friend he gets to." She noted. "You're his friend, all right."

"And your point is?"

She shook her head at you. "Be careful with that one." She said. "You don't know what kind of trouble you'll get into."


	5. Chapter 5

You laugh as you turn the page in your book, curled up in the couch. It's  _A Study in Charlotte,_ an amazing book based off the so-called "descendants" of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The deductions in there are so amazingly created that you could almost believe them.

In other words, it's a good book.

It's been half a week since the  _quadruple genocide due to cheating_ incident, and you've, apparently, got on the news. It's hilarious, really, how the news will gobble anything up. You've been given full credit in the police department, although you should only get half when you think about it. The other half should belong to Sherlock Holmes.

You've also researched him up, his website  _The Science of Deduction,_ and his 'friend' John Watson's blog. He's quite a writer, that one. He tends to romanticize or dramatize everything but that just makes it even better.

Turning back to your book, you scan the pages before realizing that maybe the sun's getting into your eyes too much so instead stand up to close the drapes. Upon further inspection of outside, you realize that there's a suspicious black car parked right outside your flat.

Instantly your eyes drift to the underside of the table, where a gun is strapped- and it's not the only place, just the closest.

The phone rings.

You pull the curtains closed and sigh as you pick up the receiver, holding it up to your ear. "Hello?"

"There's a black car outside your flat." Says a mysterious voice, and you scoff. "Get in."

"You can't force me."

The voice says, completely calm, "I can get you sacked and unable to get another job for the rest of your life, all in five seconds. Get. In."

You don't care for your job much, but to satisfy the annoying voice, you respond, "Fine. But I'm bringing my book with me."

"Fine." The voice sighs, and just as you're about to hang up, says, "You might want to change."

"No can do." You reply, and put down the receiver. Stupid mysterious annoying voices that distract you from your reading and pull you to mysterious places.

Picking up your book, you yawn and finger-comb your hair before pulling on some plain black flip-flops, jogging down the stairs. As soon as you open the door, a woman steps out of the car and opens the door for you, eyes passing over your attire with a raise of the eyebrow.

You scowl, get in, and ignore her as you immediately start reading.

* * *

"We're here."

You look up at the woman and scowl.

"Five more minutes, please?"

In response, the woman opens the door, and you huff, sticking a finger between the page you were reading, and duck out of the car. You're in a large space, an empty parking lot, and you immediately sit down on the only chair that's there, in the room.

You hear soft footsteps: most people wouldn't be able to _hear_ it, but then again you're not most people.

"There's no point sneaking up on me, you know." You tut, not looking up from your book, and the man steps out from behind you.

"I can see."

"What do you want?" You snap. "I don't _like_ people sneaking up on me."

Folding the corner of the page you were on, you set the book down on the stool and stood up. Whatever words the man was going to say was left in his mouth as he stared at you.

Your attire, that was probably what had done it. You were dressed in dark green jogging shorts, showing off your shapely legs, and the shorts were half covered by the thin cream-colored shirt you wore that had a dipping neckline and where a part of your bra strap was visible: your pyjamas.

Yup, you came to the mysterious voice in your pyjamas.

"I-" He survey you again, his eyes drifting lower to your pyjama shorts.

"My eyes are up here," You chuckle. "You wished to tell me something about Sherlock?"

"Y-" He's caught off guard again. "How could you _possibly_ know that?"

"How? Easy, the only out of ordinary thing I've done this week is talk to Sherlock, solve a crime with him, and someone comes and kidnaps me instantly? Not a coincidence."

He lean on his umbrella, and you scan his formal suit and his umbrella, as well as his expression. Hmm. Interesting.

"Your... connection to Sherlock." The man says, rather uncertainly. "What is it?"

"You're concerned about him." You note his expression.

He nods. "What is your connection to him?"

"I solved a _single_ crime with him, Mr. Holmes." You say softly. "I know you are concerned, but please do not worry about him. I will keep an eye on him."

He's shocked, again.

"How?"

"Oh, I'm sure you know how, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock's older brother stares at you with a disbelieving expression, "I can see why he likes you."

"Yes." You flip out your phone as it vibrates against your leg. "Ah, and that is your little brother texting me, yes?"

_Need you at 221B Baker St._

_Come as soon as possible_

_-SH_

 

You ignore the other man's pointed stare as you say, "I need to go. He's probably in his mind palace again. I'll take the black car back, I assume?"

He watch, silent, as you scoop up the book and walk over to the car.

"You're an intriguing woman, Miss (L/N)." He calls out to your retreating form. "I hope I see you again."

"I know you do." You reply, and climb into the car, shutting the door.

 


End file.
